


How to reduce your consulting detective to a pliant puddle

by Weisse_Rose



Series: Horny Sherlock Compilation (stand-alone first time stories) [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Happy Ending, M/M, Mary who?, Massage, No the other kind, Sweet, Touch-Starved, Virgin Sherlock, kind of, wait what kind were you thinking of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weisse_Rose/pseuds/Weisse_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets frustrated over the puzzle of Moriarty's return. John offers stress relief. Post-HLV fluffy fluffness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John looked up from behind the newspaper warily. It had been a long time since he had seen the consulting detective in one of his moods. Today seemed to be the day. Sherlock was pacing restlessly in front of the huge board looming over the living room couch, mumbling to himself.

Pinned to the board were numerous newspaper clippings, post-its and pictures, among them, of all things, a snapshot of Joe Biden. Many of the items were connected by a seemingly random web of threads. John had given up trying to make sense of the concoction about a week ago. He had meant to ask Sherlock what the Biden picture was about, though. However, now didn't seem like the right time.

Sherlock stopped pacing, in order to glare at the board so intensely that John almost expected it to spontaneously burst into flames. The detective caught him staring and redirected his gaze at him. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. For a second, he felt a weird sense of companionship with the board. He thought that he might be about to unravel the secret behind spontaneous human combustion.

“It doesn't make any sense, John!”

Sherlock's voice had an accusing tone as if it were entirely John's fault that the detective couldn't figure out Moriarty's next move. John sighed and pointedly resumed reading his newspaper. He managed to read two more sentences when suddenly a pale hand grabbed the newspaper from him and a frowning face appeared in its place.

“How can you just sit there and read the newspaper? How did he do it? Why? What possible scheme could have been served by announcing his survival on television?”

With the last sentence, the detective grabbed him by the shoulders and started to shake him. Now it was John’s turn to shoot a deathly glare his friend’s way. The doctor placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders in turn.

“Calm down, Sherlock.”

“I AM CALM!” 

Sherlock seemed surprised himself at his outburst. He quickly let go of John's shoulders and sat down heavily on the floor in front of the couch.

John took a closer look at his friend. He noticed the dark circles under his eyes and his complexion, which was pale even by Sherlock's standards.

“When did you last sleep?”

“Sleeping is negligible.”

“Sherlock.” 

There was an unmistakable note of warning in John's voice.

Sherlock looked up at John and for the span of a heartbeat John thought he saw something like helplessness flash in the detective’s eyes. It was gone so quickly that he doubted he had seen it all.

“How am I supposed to sleep when I know that”, he pointed theatrically at the board on the wall behind him, “is staring me in the face, mocking me.”

John thought he heard a pleading edge in Sherlock's next words.

“Help me, John. Conduct the light! Give me the piece that will make everything fall into place.”

The doctor sighed again, got up slowly from his chair and walked over to stand in front of the wall. His eyes roamed over the board, from the picture of Joe Biden to an article on the increased import of candy to the U.K., on to a post-it which had simply “tuna” written on it. There was no apparent connection.

He contemplated that maybe this board was proof that Sherlock's brain had finally thrown in the towel, much like an overclocked computer. He looked down at the detective and gave a helpless shrug.

Sherlock gave a groan and rubbed his hands over his eyes. 

“I know the answer is there, but I simply cannot connect the dots.”

In the short span of their conversation, John had moved on from feeling slightly annoyed to mostly concerned. He wanted to help his friend, but he didn't know what to do. The dynamic between them had changed drastically and he wholeheartedly wished things could go back to the simple adventure of their first weeks together.

He dropped to the couch next to where Sherlock was sitting on the floor. On an impulse he didn't question, he put his left hand on the detective’s head and slowly drew his fingers through his curls. He could feel Sherlock tense at the action and almost withdrew his hand again immediately.

Instead, he started to slowly massage Sherlock's scalp. After a few seconds of this, he saw the detective visibly relax, sagging against the couch. Encouraged by this, John added his other hand and started to massage Sherlock's head in earnest.

John told himself that he was just helping his friend think. He vaguely remembered that scalp massages could improve the blood flow to the brain. Or something.

By now, the detective had melted completely against the couch and was making a sound somewhere in between a satisfied hum and a purr. John was fascinated by his reaction. He put a bit more pressure into it and slowly moved his fingers down to Sherlock's neck. He was rewarded with a sound that was most definitely a moan.

John readjusted his sitting position, since he was turned at an awkward angle on the couch. While he moved, his eyes strayed and with a start he saw that there was a considerable tenting in the detective's tight-fitting trousers.

John thought that he should probably be concerned about this development. But for some reason, he felt thrilled rather than disturbed. He had caused this. With nothing more than a massage. John remembered the conversation with Mycroft in Buckingham palace and wondered how much truth had been in his words. Sherlock certainly seemed extraordinarily susceptible to his touch.

The doctor moved his hands down to his friend's shoulders and felt some tension left there. In their current position, he couldn't massage Sherlock's shoulders properly. John made a decision. He removed his hands, which earned him a small noise of complaint from the detective.

John stood up and looked down at his friend.

“Take your shirt off.”

At that, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he looked at the doctor with a weird mix of expressions on his face. John saw fear, arousal and a flicker of hope.

“Take your shirt off and lie down on your stomach on the couch. Your neck and shoulders feel almost twisted in a knot and I think it's time you relaxed a bit.” Almost defensively, he added, “Could help you wrap your head around the case.”

The detective seemed to struggle with the decision for a long time, than he almost imperceptibly shook his head.

“I would rather keep my shirt on. I'll lie down on the bed, which will give you better access.”

He then vanished into his bedroom without taking another look at John.

The doctor stood alone in the living room and took a steadying breath. He wondered where this was going. And where he wanted it to go. Then he stopped thinking and followed Sherlock into the bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

When he entered the bedroom, he saw that Sherlock was indeed lying on his stomach, his arms resting at his sides, his head and neck supported on a crumbled-up shirt. 

The detective gave a calm impression which was betrayed by the slight blush creeping up his neck.

“Can we get this over with or are you just going to stand there?”

His voice fell short of its usual biting tone. It was muffled by the shirt and John thought he detected a very faint hint of panic.

John moved over to the bed quickly, to not give himself a moment to think about what the hell he was doing. He swiftly sat down next to Sherlock and resumed his earlier activity.

He started with the detective’s scalp, taking his time, moving his fingers in slow circles. Sherlock made a sound which he tried to muffle with the shirt, but John was almost certain that it was another moan. Very slowly, he continued his administrations from the detective’s scalp down to his neck. 

He spent about a quarter of an hour massaging Sherlock’s neck and shoulders. The shirt, which the detective still wore, was in his way, but, John thought, if Sherlock was shy about taking his shirt off in front of him, there was nothing to be done about it. It was a bit weird though, considering he had accompanied the man once to Buckingham palace when the detective was wearing nothing more than a bed sheet.

By the time John was ready to move further down, he realized that the detective’s breathing had become ragged. He marvelled again at the thought that he had done this to the great Sherlock Holmes. 

John moved carefully down his friend’s spine, applying slight pressure with his thumbs. He had given massages before, but only to his girlfriends. He put the feeling that the whole thing was decidedly erotic, even though it was with another man, down to the fact that he only had those memories to compare it to. Of course, he would associate it with sex, he only ever used it as foreplay.

John branched out from Sherlock’s spine and fanned out his fingers to draw them in big circles over his friend’s back. He saw that the detective had fisted his hands in the bed sheets so hard that his knuckles were starting to turn white. 

Not for the first time, John wondered how much experience his friend really had in this area. He certainly seemed almost touch-starved, considering how he reacted to the massage. 

The doctor couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been since somebody touched the detective in this way. He considered for a second that maybe it had never happened before but then rejected that idea as ridiculous. Surely, Sherlock must have done some things, even if it were true that he was a virgin.

John was abruptly thrown out of his reverie by the sudden realization that Sherlock had started moving in short jerks against the mattress. Again, the doctor felt that he should be concerned about this development, but instead he felt an unmistakable spark of arousal.

The detective’s voice was still muffled and the words were whispered, but the doctor was certain that he made out at least two of them. _John. Please._

John felt a strange thrill run through him. Sherlock “I never begged for anything in my life” Holmes, reduced to a desperate mess with nothing more than a back massage at his hands. The doctor couldn’t help but feel a certain smugness.

He felt the detective’s movements speed up under his hands and heard his breath coming in short gasps. Acting on impulse, he moved his hands even further down and started kneading Sherlock’s arse. 

John was well aware that he had just crossed the line between a friendly massage and foreplay which they had been balancing on. He couldn’t care less, though, because the detective gave a long shudder under his hands and then stilled completely. 

John withdrew his hands and suddenly felt mortified. Would this make things awkward between them? He felt a strong impulse to just bolt from the room, but he doubted very much that such an action would reduce the awkwardness in the long run. Better face it now and get it over with.

The doctor felt like he had been sitting on the bedside, debating with himself, for a very long time, when Sherlock slowly lifted his head and met his eyes, a look of terror clear on his features.

John decided that there was only one possible approach. Nothing serious had happened here. He’d just try to lighten the mood. He raised an eyebrow and the smugness was clearly audible in his voice.

“There. Feeling more relaxed?”

Sherlock looked at him strangely, but at least the frightening sight of terror slowly vanished from his features.

“Bit not good?”

John had to grin at his friend’s question. He sounded so very much unlike Sherlock. The usual commanding tone was gone, instead his voice was small and insecure.

The doctor considered the statement. Yes, a lot of people would definitely consider coming in your pants while getting a back massage from your best mate a bit not good. John realized, to his surprise, that he was not one of those people.

“No, it’s fine. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. Then he suddenly sat up, the exulted look of realization on his face that he only got when he had just cracked a case.

“Of course! His pants! So very obvious! Thank you, John.”

With the last words, he grabbed the doctor by the neck and planted a quick kiss on his forehead. Then he jumped off the bed and ran out of the room.

John looked after him, smiling. Maybe they could get back to normal after all. Well, their normal, which would be considered crazy by anybody else’s standards.

He just hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t run out of the flat with a very noticeable stain on the front of his trousers.

Just as he had the thought, he heard loud footsteps pounding down the stairs. With a sigh, he jumped off the bed and ran after his friend, hoping to catch him before he got into a taxi. _Yeah. Normal._


End file.
